killed you with kisses
by belindasylvia
Summary: The entire band had decided that Enjolras' apartment would be the most appropriate place to crash and simultaneously celebrate Gavroche's thirteenth birthday. It was quite exceedingly obvious who had chosen which of the reasons to stay later than usual, but as per usual, no-one really gave a shit what happened.
1. part i in which she knows

**There ain't no rest for the wicked**

** money don't grow on trees**

** i got bills to play**

** i got mouths to feed**

** ain't nothing in this world for free**

killed you with kisses

**part i. ****_in which she knows_**

* * *

"_Faut péter dans l'eau pour faire des bulles__*1_, Gavroche!"

Enjolras curses colourfully as he throws his gaming console at the TV screen when Gavroche's little green car crosses the finish line seconds before his red one.

Eponine smirks, pulling her brother into a rough embrace as she sits cross-legged on the carpet between the two competitors, one earphone in.

"Enji, face it, you suck at video games," the girl laughs: somewhat coldly, somewhat at how she'd survived a decade of friendship with this textbook moron.

Enjolras rolls his eyes in imitation of his resident insulter, even miraculously ignoring her use of his most detested nickname.

"Hey, maybe if you keep rolling your eyes, you'd find a brain back there." Eponine shoots the insult back immediately and effortlessly, and to follow up, holds up the loser sign to his forehead.

"You're pretty as a picture," Enjolras says to his friend's raised eyebrow, "and I'd hence love to hang you."

Eponine snickers. "I taught you that one, you imbecile," she laughs sarcastically once more, and Gavroche crawls out of her grasp. The kid clears his throat.

"Yes, it seems that the not-young-but-thirteen-year-old Gavroche has has beaten the pathetically pathetic Enjolras at the fifteenth video game in a _row,_" he announces to the group, raising his arms above his head graciously. Courfeyrac laughs at the boy he could've called his brother, from a few feet back on the couch.

"Is this boy unstoppable, or is he _unstoppable,_" Courfeyrac smiles as he stands to ruffle Gavroche's hair. The younger boy growls, adding a sarcastic "get lost, Courf,"before he flops down onto Enjolras' carpet.

The entire band had decided that Enjolras' apartment - as their headquarters - would be the most appropriate place to both crash and simultaneously celebrate Gavroche's thirteenth birthday. Some cherished the ability to do the latter, but, as with light there is shadow, others took the preceding to their advantage. It was quite exceedingly obvious who had chosen which of the reasons to stay later than usual, but as per usual, no-one really gave a shit what happened.

Eponine drags herself up off of the floor, quickly bored of the immature video game rivalry.

"Mind if I smoke?" she asks Enjolras casually, cigarette already dangling teasingly from between her lips.  
"I'd rather you didn't, 'Ponine, you know I hate the smell of smok-"  
"Cool," Eponine stalks onto the balcony, a whisper of smoke already trailing after her on the way out. She does not look back, both physically and metaphorically, because she knows that reminiscing is a key ingredient in the recipe for downfall. She is too strong for any rubbish of that sort.

"'Ponine, can I smoke too?" the newly-teenaged Gavroche smiles hopefully as his sister grumbles something about his irresponsibility.

"Gav, you're twel- thirteen. Go back to your crappy video games," Eponine twirls a strand of hair that had escaped the limiting confines of her high ponytail. She doesn't even look back at her brother when she replies, making her voice seem softer than what she hears herself. Albeit softer, it still remains home to a malicious edge. Her brother lets out an exasperated sigh. Gavroche knows that Eponine will never let him smoke. He knows that she will never let him become what she has become. She hasn't become anything fearful, but in her mind, she has passed the point of no return and will not allow him to follow in her footsteps. He abandons his thoughts as he always does, lunging himself back at an unexpecting Courfeyrac.

Enjolras eyesthe group distastefully. Gavroche and Courfeyrac have become instantly locked in a wrestling match. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta inhabit one corner of his living room, laughing at Musichetta's repulsive jokes. Grantaire, guffawing loudly, hands a bottle to a slightly tipsy Bahorel. And there, on the balcony, stands she; Eponine, dark hair whipping around her shoulders, cigarette hanging carelessly from the corner of her mouth. The smoke and the city smog mingle in an alien embrace, making her outline hazy. He notices that the height of his apartment and the complimenting chill do nothing to worry the girl, who is clad in high-waist shorts and a sleeveless _arctic monkeys _shirt.

It is, usually, when his watch neared ten in the night, when Enjolras re-figures that becoming the lead singer of his band was qyuite a substantial thing of little importance. The other completing members of _deleted kingdom _gather around the television once more to watch himself and Gavroche resume their fanatical video game assault, and after another four wins, Gavroche pauses the game.

"Hey, where's Pontmercy?" Gavroche elbows Courfeyrac's side. A certain silence falls over the room, and it does not seem like leaving any time soon.

Outside, the daughter of air stiffens upon hearing the name. She allows the smoke from her cigarette to be stolen by her closest companion, the invisible child of nothing.

Grantaire snorts as he drops himself onto Enjolras' viciously red couch. "Ha," the drunkard smiles, "we may have gotten something into the poor bastard's drink and he kind of stole Cosette away from the whole celebration and, well, you know the rest."

"God, R, what have you done?" Joly, being to a degree, innocent, puts his head in his hands. Grantaire shrugs, sighs, and offers the response that anyone could have calculated from him: "Just a little fun, guys, just a little fun."

"So, shall we have cake?" Courfeyrac halts the predictable silence that Grantaire had indirectly forced over the room, and Gavroche jumps up to join Courfeyrac, who is already making a beeline for Enjolras' fridge.

"Guys, guys, slow it," Enjolras does not bother to move, but his forewarning does not stop Gavroche from almost pirouetting as the boy yanks the fridge door open to reveal a spectacular ice cream cake. The cake is topped with fondant features which depict the majority of Gavroche's strange obsessions: soccer, cheap photo booths, video games, chocolate biscuits and painting. However, the thing that catches Enjolras' eye is the statement French flag which arises from the center of the cake. He guesses that it is only there because Enjolras had gotten some aspect of French history whirring around in Gavroche's head for weeks last year. He doesn't mind; the fact that the boy treasures it enough to put it on his cake makes a whisper of a smile appear on his marble face.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "Who made it?"

"Me and Courf," Gavroche exclaims proudly, his features adopting a wide smile. Combeferre, being a grammar Nazi, tries not to scream. He forgives the boy on the basis that it is his birthday.

"What's it made of?" Grantaire decides to harmlessly interrogate, leaning against the arm of the couch.

"Neapolitan." Gavroche seems exceedingly proud of his newfound piping skills.

"How much mess did you make?"

"We don't speak of that," Courfeyrac coughs, and the closing of the balcony door is barely audible.

"Whose lucky kitchen ended up with ice cream on the ceiling?"

"Mine." Gavroche holds in his smile as his older sister snaps back into the room. Eponine flicks her hair off of her shoulder and points a long finger semi-accusingly at Gavroche, who shrugs, hands in pockets.

"They insisted on making their own ice cream. Mess is an understatement." Eponine throws herself strategically onto the couch with that, avoiding Grantaire perfectly.

"You're evil, sis."  
"There aint no rest for the wicked," Eponine smirks.  
"Money don't go on trees," Gavroche quotes back at her, imitating her wit. The two had decided that it ran in the family.

"Now I _actually _have bills to pay and mouths to feed," Eponine shut her brother up with a click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, as the band burst out into song.

"God, shut up, would you?" Eponine throws her head backwards, curling up into the side of the burning couch and hoisting her white converse up next to her.

"Feet off the couch, 'Ponine," Enjolras yells through the singing, triggering Eponine to stick her tongue out at him.

"I got smoking past you, Apollo, I'm pretty sure I'll get away with my feet on your couch."  
Enjolras narrows his eyes, knowing that she will defeat him in the long run, no matter how eloquent he his. He may be the manipulator of words, but she is the queen of insults, and he will always fall victim to her daggers. He knows, that even in fifty years, she will still be able to track him down and hurl insults at him whenever she feels like it. Still, he finds the bother to reply with one of her homemade insults.

"I don't know what's making you so ignorant, but it's working."

"Last time I heard that one, I fell off of my dinosaur. And it's also mine, because I'm goddamn sensational."

"Anything else in the box, Pandora?"  
"I bite my thumb at thee," Eponine raises a corner of her mouth casually, alongside her middle finger.

"Cold," Grantaire commentates, offering a Eponine a high-five (which she ignores.) She returns his gesture with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

"How about," Enjolras purses his lips in defeat, "we eat some cake."

Eponine clicks her fingers at Gavroche, who takes the hint to dart to his sister's side.  
"Make sure that Enjolras gets strawberry ice cream," Eponine smirks, waiting until Gavroche nods obediently before leaning back into the confines of the couch. The boy runs back to Courfeyrac, repeating the command inaudibly. Courfeyrac shrugs, taking a knife to cut the strawberry third of the cake.

Gavroche scuttles through Enjolras' well kept kitchen, and climbs onto a countertop to grap a pile of plates from a cupboard otherwise out of his reach. Enjolras cringes as Gavroche jumps down with ceramic plates overflowing in his arms, before sliding across the tiles in his socks. The boy dumps the plates next to Courfeyrac, just in time for Courfeyrac to slam down a hunk of strawberry ice cream and fondant French flag. Gavroche rushes the plate to Enjolras, with an accompanying teaspoon. The latter thanks the birthday boy with a disgruntled sound effect, and takes the spoon in his right hand.

Eponine holds in a snigger as Enjolras ingests the first mouthful of his cake. She finds it a suprise that it takes him so long for him to feel the flavour seeping into his mouth, but holds Courfeyrac or Gavroche's atrocious cooking to blame. She does not, however, find it much of a suprise when Enjolras' head whips around to meet her cold gaze.

"Told you I was sensational."  
"I see that the cream rises to the top. So does the scum, in this case."  
"I swear you have one brain cell, and that cell is fighting for dominance."

"Are you two just going to keep on throwing crappy internet-borne insults at eachother?"

The voice comes from two rooms down the hall, where Marius walks calmly out of Enjolras' study with Cosette's hand in his.

"Wait, what the hell Marius, Grantaire said that he..."  
"Marius, you're walking far too stably for your state. There must be some symptom..."  
"Shit, Pontmercy, how was it? I didn't do that for nothing."

Musichetta purses her lips and runs to take Cosette's other hand, practically snatching her friend away from Marius.

"Come on, 'Sette, you can tell me _all _about it. Was he good or not?"  
"Wait, what?" Cosette retreats back into Marius' open arms, confused as he is, before Marius' innocent revelation comes.

"Guys, guys, guys," Marius laughs uncomfortably, "we were googling Enjolras and Eponine's insults, in the study. They all come from a side-page on Eponine's tumblr." Maris sighs awkwardly, before adding, "we weren't by _any _accounts, you know..."

Cosette's blank face snaps into realisation in that second. She would have fainted, if it were not for Marius' arms holding her upright. "I _may _be twenty-two, but," she pauses to breathe properly, "still, no, no, no, no!"

Eponine snorts. Grantaire's face becomes expressionless. "I tried," the boy discloses, and raises his hands in mock surrender.

"And evidently _failed,_" Eponine finishes for him.  
"Says the one who has a dark grunge bohemian hipster black and white indie blog." Grantaire was not one to lose arguments.

"Piss off." Eponine wasn't, either, but in his moment of undeniable failure, she lets Grantaire go.

Marius squeezes Cosette's hand, looking up at Enjolras' red vinyl record clock, which was a Christmas present from Jehan from a few years back.

"It's almost midnight, 'Sette. We should really be getting back," he whispers into her ear, as she nods, still in a state of mild shock, before she commences her journey to the door of Enjolras' apartment.

"Happy birthday, Gav," Marius waves at the boy as he put a hand to the round doorknob, "and thanks, Enjolras, as per usual."

"Happy birthday, Gavroche," Cosette offers on top, with a sweet and gracious smile, before she gives a curt wave to the band, and turns to follow Marius outside.

Time passes, as it has a habit of doing, and Musichetta leas Joly and Bossuet out the door at ten past midnight. The band filedsout piece by piece, until only the son of steel, the self-coined 'Miss Sensational,' and the resident drunkard remain, weary, at Enjolras' apartment.

Eponine exhales emphatically at the laconism Courfeyrac leaves behind upon his departure with Gavroche.

"Let's watch Shrek," she slouches back onto the couch once more, marking her territory.

Enjolras runs a hand through his golden mane. "Eponine, we've watched it eleven times. Give it - "

"A rest," Grantaire finshes Enjolras' sentence for him. Eponine raises an eyebrow at their mental synchronisation, but predictably rises nevertheless, drumming her long fingers along the spines of Enjolras' collection of video cassettes, in search of her all-time favourite.

"Whatever, I'm off," Grantaire peels himself off of the carpet, hands in jean pockets. "See you 'round, losers."

"You've got enough loserdom in yourself, R, no need to inflict it upon us," Eponine does not even turn to wish Grantaire a good night.

"You suck, 'Ponine," Grantaire offers over his shoulder, not bothering to address Enjolras. The door slams, goodbye.

Eponine smiles as she finally pulls _Shrek _from the shelf. "You _really _need to get a DVD player, Enji. How behind can you get?"  
Enjolras looks up from his place on the carpet as Eponine teasingly dangles the cassette above his head, wriggling it back and forth between her fingers. "Just because everyone has one doesn't mean I _need _one, 'Ponine."  
"Just because you have no friends doesn't mean you shouldn't keep up to date with Shrek-watching devices, Enji. For God's sake, you're the lead singer of one of America's favourite boy bands, and you don't have a fucking DVD player. That's a serious issue."  
"First of all, we're not a 'boy band,' and second, just give me the thing and I'll play it, or there won't be any Shrek tonight."

Eponine surrenders the cassette, dropping it into Enjolras' hands, and turns to reclaim her territory on the couch. Enjolras sets up the video, adjusting the volume to Eponine's commands as the menu screen appears.

"Sit with me," Eponine yawns, patting the seat beside her.  
"If I did everything you said, I'd be battered into a shrimp."  
"You've got the wit of a fucking shrimp."

"Stop talking about yourself."

"That comeback is _gay _out of ten, Enji."

Enjolras coughs, an indication for Eponine to change the topic. She takes the hint, although she would much prefer to insult him for another good while.

"Hmm," she stretches her limbs out delicately as the movie starts, "when's your next concert?"

Eponine is not one to stay on top of her own schedule, let alone her friends'. She does know that _deleted kingdom _do not want to go on any tours yet; neither national nor international, despite their command.  
"Wednesday."

"So I've got three days to get Musichetta and Cosette to tell me what they do so I can help."

"You're actually going to go?" The corner of Enjolras' mouth twitches upwards in both anticipation and blatant suprise."

"It's the only way I can get away from my shit parents, that day."

"Watch your language, 'Ponine."

"Shit shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck fu-"

Enjolras wrenches a hand onto Eponine's mouth as she spurts the unfiltered damnations. Eponine, being the little scoundrel she is, sticks out her tongue to lick his hand and consequently feels it being immediately withdrawn.

"I know you inside out, you wretch," Eponine murmurs, changing her position to curl herself up into Enjolras' right side. He bites his lip at Eponine's contact, but decides to swing an arm around her shoulders awkwardly, anyway. She buries her head in the crook of his neck, turning her attention partially to the movie, but more to Enjolras' heat flowing though her skin. They sit, however much alone, but in an entanglement of limbs and hearts.

Inhaling their combined scents of cold coffee, old books and horribly home-cooked meals, Eponine sighs when they are about forty minutes into the movie. Turning to look Enjolras in the eye, she stretches her neck to whisper to his ear:

"I can't believe you're still my best friend, you piece of shit."

She soon falls asleep in his arms.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, here is your first chapter, and I've got basically the whole story planned out, but I might throw in a few more plot twists hmm oh well enjoy !**


	2. part ii in which he knows

**so it goes in one ear and right out the other**

**people talking shit but you know I never bother**

**it goes in one ear and right out the other**

**people talking shit, they can kiss the back of my hand**

killed you with kisses

* * *

**part ii. ****_in which he knows_**

She is long gone by morning.

To be frank, she always is. When she falls asleep so innocently at some point through the movie, he gives up on whatever plans he'd had for the evening and carries her sleeping figure to one side of his bed and he tucks the blankets around her. He has always thought that her frame was far too emaciated for a personality such as hers. Her faultless words couldn't be reflected in her gaunt limbs. Her causes couldn't be echoed anywhere in her ethereal figure.

He goes off and reads his books after he leaves her there, but reading is a heck of a lot harder, even for him, when he has her on his mind. She is the queen of oblivion, and simultaneously the ruler of everything that he knows. He will finish his book before scolding himself for staying up so late, and then he kind of crawls onto his bed silently and lies on top of his uncultured, red bed sheets, uncovered. He lulls himself into a more thoughtless train of thought than the one which usually accompanies his mind, thanks to the rhythm of her serene breathing.

And maybe she is hoping for a fairytale, too. She always holds up her shell; her armour which not a single person could penetrate. He knows that he wants to break through those walls, but she is too smart, even for him.

That is the entire problem. He is in love with her.

He does not really know what love is, however. Of course, he had the casual high school date-for-three-weeks-and-then-avoid-each-other episode, but that does not provide him with a definition of love.

He has been in love with her for about three years now. He is apparently too good at hiding it, however, and not even she, who is the master of investigation, has picked up on it. He knows that his apparent marble façade helps him in this endeavour, but he will not be able to hold it in forever.

He knows that he does love her, but people like him have known things, too. He has pride, and a reputation to uphold, but he knows that doubting his own emotions will lead him into his own type of conflict.

He does not know what love is.

He does not know how to love.

He does not know why he is in love.

He only knows that he is in love.

* * *

He wakes up at roughly nine o' clock on that Sunday morning, one hand stretched out to where he had lain her down last night. Of course, she is gone, but the bed still holds her faint warmth, meaning that she left later than she usually did. The room still smells of her cheap but sharp perfume, and he breathes as much of it in as he can before he surrenders to the morning and actually gets out of bed before ten o' clock.

He sees it there, of course: the tea that she leaves behind every time she leaves. He walks to the kitchen bench where it sits innocently, in his favourite mug, with the bright red handle. Only she knows that it is his favourite mug. Only she knows a lot of things about him. Only she knows that he plays the classical guitar. Only she knows that he has a secretly incurable obsession with musicals. Only she knows that he has never used an electric blanket. Only he knows that he loves her.

He knows a lot of things about her, too, that no one else knows. He knows that she has never been out of state, but she would kill to go New York, because she really uncharacteristically shares his love for musical theatre. He knows that she was actually taught how to switch between being an open book and being ambiguous, by her mother. He knows that she has never bought a CD, although she has an impressive collection of vinyls and always picks at him for not owning a DVD player.

He looks into the mug, or the abyss, as he would take it, seeing her face reflected in the swirling liquid. It is still warm, he notices, as he puts his hand to the hostilely red handle. He drowns his throat with the liquid, as he drowns his thoughts with the heat, and thinks of drowning his head in the crook of her neck. And he wants to stop thinking: he thinks that he thinks about things too much. But as he is quite ironically thinking about not thinking, he gives up, lowering the mug back to the table as he notices the note underneath for the first time.

_to open your eyes in the right way._

Of course he knows that it is her handwriting, and the fact that it is written on a crumpled receipt only supports the fact that the note must be from her. The thing is, he thinks, again, is that she never leaves notes. She is not one to leave more information than necessary, but then again, her message was not the most direct thing that he could imagine. He succumbs to the heat from the tea that washes though his head eventually, allowing it to finally let his thoughts sink away.

Discarding the mug by the kitchen sink, he turns to the note instead. He runs his fingers lightly over the imprints left by her black pen, feeling the grooves left in the places which he thinks should be left vacant between the letters: he is one for printing, whilst she has always pursued the use of cursive. Why he notices these little things, she does not know. He notices that the receipt is from Walmart, and she buys a packet of coloured pencils for a brother. The receipt is three days old, and has imitated perforations from where she has poked the pen in the side too many times. The message is written in between two rectangular advertisements on the reverse of the thin paper, and her handwriting is nowhere rushed, but the pen almost runs out of ink by the last time the words stretch to the last character. He decides that everything, aside from her font, reflects her personality almost perfectly: Walmart's coloured pencils, the stab marks on the side, the blank smudge of ink between the printed cashier name and the subtotal.

He turns away, both physically and metaphorically, but leaves the receipt on the countertop instead of crinkling it further and shooting it towards the bin, as he would any other piece of paper. At 11 o' clock, he decides that he does not feel at home in his, and after stealing his favourite red jumper from its hanger, decides that a walk would clear his mind, upon the fact that he does need a few fresh groceries after what his friends did to his kitchen on the night prior.

He opens his door, and he closes his mind.

* * *

"Eponine, would you please go? You know, it would really be a great thing for both of us and for the guys an-"  
"Cosette, you have no goddamn idea." Musichetta cuts off her friend. "This is how you do it," she adds, turning away from the brunette to face the girl with auburn locks draped over her forehead.  
"Eponine, you will get your goddamn ass to the _deleted kingdom _concert tomorrow at seven-thirty pm, or I will personally fucking drag you there. Got it?"

Eponine groans, puffing a lock of hair off of her upper lip. She pushes herself up off of where she had been lying on Musichetta's bed while the trio of girls had quarrelled. "Fuck you," she mutters, leaning her back against the wall, "I'll go. Happy?"

Cosette squeals, jumping enthusiastically before falling back into the desk chair, while Musichetta curls a strand of ecstatic ginger hair behind her ear, already having predicted the outcomes of the entire conversation.

Eponine has not been in a good mood all morning. She knows that she stayed too long without outstaying her welcome. She blames it on her being tired, as per usual, but she knows that she can't use that excuse against herself for much longer. She does not want to fall, and she does not want to break, and she does not want to burn all of those fairytales she yearns and longs for.

She does not love him. Of course she does not love him: he is her best friend. She mocks the thought, shunning the fact that it was one of the first to come into her head. She knows that love is the fool's board game. A game of monopoly – the locations as those whom she knows, the houses as moments that they know, the die as her, and the die's decisions as her decisions. It's all a game that she's the champion of that she never wanted to play in the first place.

And now Musichetta has got her to see him while she loses her mind.

She has the dice in her hand, even if she doesn't want it.

* * *

**A/N: so this chapter was shorter, and thank you for the lovely reviews! sorry about the filler sort of style, but every ff needs some deep quotes eventually. next chapter will be the concert where eponine 'loses her mind,' and i'll try to keep the chapters over 1.5k words. i'll probably be able update once a week unless i either die under schoolwork or i have some type of typing spree okay bye thank you!**


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